Physicality
by IConcurVehemently
Summary: Ariadne and the team are whisked back into the world of extraction with another job. But when an old foe, unknown to Ariadne, reappears and makes the team question their grip on reality, Ariadne must get clever to save the everyone's sanity. AriadneArthur
1. Chapter 1

**Hello!**

**I'm IConcurVehemently, but you're more than welcome to call me Vehe. I'm no stranger to fanfiction, but I usually hang out in the world of **_**Bones**_**, **_**Castle**_**, and **_**Kingdom Hearts.**_** However, I saw **_**Inception**_** about a month ago, and I'm hooked. The fanfic stuff in this world is FANTASTIC. I'm hoping mine fits in as well!**

**Normally, I have a pretty strong feeling about my characters before I write, but for whatever reason, Ariadne's playing hide and seek with me. This is the first chapter in a job fic, and I might come back and rewrite it later once I figure her out better. **

**I'm really excited about this one – we have love, lust, humor, friendship, and Ariadne learning how to work in a strip club ahead! **

**Disclaimer****: **I do not own _Inception_. If I did, I wouldn't be writing because I'd be playing around in that world.

* * *

The first surprise: it wasn't hard.

No, not at all. They had been briefed on this – once the job was over, they would collect their belongings, disembark the plane, painstakingly make their way through customs, grab their luggage. Then they would scatter. But not the helter-skelter, run-for-your-lives kind of scatter, no. Ultimately, they were professionals. And when a group of professionals decides to head opposite ways without so much as an over-the-shoulder, I-hope-this-isn't-the-last-time-I-see-you glance, it's not called scattering.

It's disappearing.

So Ariadne does exactly what she's been told to do. She grabs her luggage (in the most discreet way possible for an inexperienced traveler who mistakenly brought a suitcase far too bulky to be easily maneuvered), checks in for her next flight (supposedly back to Paris with a connection in Chicago), and engrosses herself in an architecture manual (in which she has to constantly remind herself that the rules of physics actually _do_ apply). She waits like that for two hours, attempting to ignore the crowds of people around her – which _are not staring at her because they are _real, _damnit_ - until a kindly looking flight manager announces that it's time for her section of the plane (meaning the regular seats) to board. Ariadne gathers her belongings, shuffles through a musty on-ramp and an even mustier airplane aisle, and seats herself next to an unfortunately obese man who happens to be taking up most of the row. Luckily, Arthur thought to reserve the window seat for her. The next four hours or so are spent using the thick glass as a pillow.

When she lands in Chicago, she is slightly disoriented. She blindly reaches for the bishop buried deep in her pocket, removing it and tipping the chess piece once, twice, three times.

_

* * *

Once, Eames had asked her about her totem._

"_In the dreams, does it not fall?" His bright blue eyes had danced, as if all the joy he gleaned from asking her forbidden questions was channeled into his irises._

"_Eames," she stuttered, wanting to follow protocol but reluctant to disappoint the forger, "I don't think I should answer that."_

_He laughed a deep, bell-like laugh. "Ariadne, darling, you are honest to a fault." His laughter continued, crinkling deep lines into his ruggedly handsome face. "And that, my dear, might be your problem."_

_She fingered her bishop nervously. "What do you mean? I – I didn't tell you anything!" she protested, clutching the gold-painted wood._

_Eames had stopped laughing. He now looked at her bemusedly, deep blue eyes twinkling. "No, you didn't. Perhaps you should have."_

"_But both Cobb and Arthur said –"_

"_Not to tell anyone about your totem, right?" He moved closer, sitting easily in a rickety lawn chair strewn next to her desk. "Have you ever thought, darling, that perhaps those two need to learn how to dream a little bigger?"_

_Now she was utterly confused as to where he was taking this conversation. "What do you mean?"_

_But then the warehouse door creaked and the formal footsteps of two men in designer shoes echoed up the stairwell. Eames dug into his pocket and fished out a black poker chip, rolling it between his fingers with practiced fluidity. Cobb and Arthur walked in, gazing warily at the smug forger and the befuddled architect. _

"_Hello, boys," Eames greeted his associates cheerfully. "Did our little meeting go well?" _

"_Quite," Arthur answered, his shrewd eyes never leaving Ariadne. The girl gulped nervously._

"_Hello," the architect offered, rendered uneasy by the three intense stares of which she was the subject. "Did you bring back any food for us?"_

_Cobb's eyes flickered, allowing warmth back into his previously stony gaze. "Yes," he answered, fumbling for the bag at his side. "Fruit crêpes, just like you asked." She strode forward, taking the bag and thanking him. Arthur turned his attention to Eames, who, clearly amused by his associate's glare, simply continued flipping his poker chip. After Ariadne had returned to her desk, lunch in hand, Eames stood, laughing._

"_Arthur, darling, when will you learn that you make more friends with honey than vinegar?" the forger asked cheerfully. He reached out and patted Arthur's cheek, a gesture which Ariadne found both playful and condescending. The agitated point man quickly swatted Eames away, much to the forger's delight. _

_Eames turned and strode back to his own desk, pausing at Ariadne's post only long enough to wink and say, "We'll continue this conversation later, princess." The architect stifled a giggle in response, very aware of the point man's intense gaze._

_

* * *

_

They had never gotten a chance to finish their conversation about totems – from that point out, either Arthur or Cobb had constantly been present. However, Eames' question had long been a source of amusement for Ariadne due to its absurdity.

She was an architecture student; she could not, in good faith, use a totem which defied practical sense, even in dreams. A bishop, when toppled, should always fall. Therefore, the truth that tied her totem to reality rested not in _whether_ the bishop fell, but instead in _how_ the bishop fell. Ariadne had chosen to hollow out the back half of the chess piece's innards, rendering it top heavy. This imbalance in mass always caused the bishop to fall face down. Furthermore, no matter how much the bishop was rolled by an outside force, it would return to this position.

And despite her current state, rumpled and crowded on a commercial flight to Chicago, the nonsense in Eames' words still made her laugh.

"Chess piece, huh? That's a weird thing to carry in your pocket."

The man next to her speaks randomly, startling her. Her eyes flick to her bishop – face down, like it should be – before she answers the pudgy figure. "Yeah – um, it's a good luck charm."

He snorts at her oddity, then cracks a smile. "Really? Well, I guess a king is a decent good luck charm."

Her subconscious, driven by her innate love for detail and her intense hatred for error, demands that she correct him. Yet her last few weeks have taught her, if anything, that sometimes people are better off delightfully oblivious to the reality around them. So the architect smiles, nods her head, and fumbles around in her bag for a tube of Chapstick that is not there, effectively ending the conversation.

She is not quite as unnerved when she steps off this second plane. As she retrieves her oversized bag from baggage claim for the second time and lugs the thing into her third check-in line, she swears that from now on she will do her absolute _best_ to fly direct.

At the thought of her future, she has to swiftly bite her cheek to force back the lump now forming in her throat. She looks around, desperately trying to fight back her rising panic, and reminds herself that her associates are not in the airport with her.

Of course, she already knows this – hell, her associates aren't even in the same _city_ as her, probably not even in the same region of the United States – but after spending a month essentially living with these men, the sudden displacement is unnerving. She remembers when she left America for Paris, the tearful goodbye with her parents, the standing alone at a gate in a Midwest airport, the crushing isolation caused by ending one life to begin another. Then, she had to choke back tears as well.

But Ariadne is not a barely-twenty college student anymore. So she squares her shoulders, sets her jaw, and walks proudly to a corner seat where she loses herself in another architecture textbook. She does not let her mind wander to the five men who she just lost. She does not wonder if they feel the loneliness that she's so desperately trying to smother. She does not question the morality of their job or whether she's doomed to reality now. She is a professional, and professionals do not have emotional breakdowns.

Not in public, anyway.

But professionally, it is currently her assignment to not draw attention. So she poses as that barely-twenty college student for the next ten hours to avoid attention, studying and sketching and immediately destroying any designs that defy the rules of physics (because no reasonable architecture student wastes time on a building that cannot exist). By the time her taxi drops her off at her apartment, she's speaking eloquent French and has basically memorized the chapters she missed in class over the last five days. To anyone else, she doesn't look like a second-to-none extraction architect who's flown from Paris to Sydney to Los Angeles to Chicago and back to Paris in less than 120 hours. Secretly, she'll congratulate herself on her composure – when she's removed from the public who wouldn't see why said composure is necessary, of course.

Her bags are dragged up three flights of stairs to her apartment, the key is finally jammed into the lock, and Ariadne wearily steps into what's probably the best testament to her past life. The flat is small, littered with manuals, textbooks, sketches, and assignments all related to her major. The furniture is modest, even tasteful considering her I-don't-really-want-to-put-a-lot-of-time-into-this attitude towards decorating her apartment. Eventually, she knew she'd have a bigger home that she could design and lavish with all the designs and colors she wanted. This little hole in the wall wasn't hers, so there was no real need to grace it with her artistry.

But now, Ariadne sees the place as exactly what she needs it to be. It's a quiet little hole in the wall, where she can pretend to be a student whose biggest dream in life is to design buildings that grace reality. And despite the fact that she _hates_ how the little place only has one window, she tells herself that this is where she needs to be right now. Five men in the world see her as part of the best extraction team in the business, buthe rest of the world sees her as a university student. For the sake of her teammates, she needs to exist as her former studious self. As much as she hates lying low, she needs to so that she can hope to dream again.

But this little apartment is where she can walk the line between those two Ariadnes, studying for exams while dreaming of the life from which she was so abruptly ripped. She quietly thanks herself for not having a roommate, as now there's nobody to question her motives. She can think – dream – in peace here.

So while the rest of the world sees her as "Ariadne, future architect," she knows that here she'll wait for them to come back and give her the chance to be something more.

* * *

The second surprise: it was a lot harder than she thought it would be.

To this day, two weeks later, she's still shocked at how easily she abandoned her dream life (no pun intended) in the LAX customs line. On that day, she had unwavering faith in her team – faith that Cobb would get home to see his family, faith that Eames, Yusuf, and Arthur would all escape suspicion, faith that she could go home and wait peacefully for them to come get her.

But it's been fourteen days. She tells herself that she's being immature, that they'd expect more from her. But like Cobb said, an idea is like a virus. And doubt has infected her mind, sabotaging her seemingly unbreakable faith in her associates.

The bishop on her desk reminds her constantly that this is reality. She won't wake up and they'll be there in the warehouse, calling her silly for thinking they'd ever abandon her. So she remembers – for if memories are not staples of reality, then what are they? She remembers the crisp lines of Arthur's suits, the enigmatic half smile that defined the mystery the point man was. She remembers the lilting chuckle of Eames, how, despite the circumstances, he managed to find humor in every situation. She remembers the voracity of Yusuf, his constant mixing and sloshing of chemicals in order to find the perfect sedative for the job. She remembers the quiet presence of Saito, how he insisted on being part of the job but was smart enough to admit he had no clue what he was doing. And she remembers Cobb's leadership, how he somehow knew how to get around every problem they fell into, and how despite his doubts, he had faith in their ability.

But doubt has taken over her memories too.

"_If you're not back before the kick, I'm leaving without you,_" Eames reminds her in the snowy hospital.

"_He'll be lost,_" Arthur quickly decides when she mentions Cobb remained in limbo.

"_Admit it, you don't believe in one reality anymore,_" Mal haunts her as she preys on Cobb's weak grasp of what actually exists.

She tips her bishop again. It falls facedown. As much as she hates to admit it, memories of dreams are reality too.

* * *

She wrestles with herself for fifteen days, questioning not her reality, but the reality of her perceptions. She knows that unthinkingly, she trusts her team. But she does not trust herself. The team in her mind never would have left her alone for this long. The team in reality seems to think otherwise. Apparently, somewhere in the divide between reality and the dreamworld, she lost track of who people are and who she wants them to be.

So she goes to class, the only constant in her life, and berates herself for trusting a group of conmen. She's grateful that Professor Miles doesn't ask her about the frown etched across her face, and she throws herself into the day's assignment with more force than she has in a long time. By the end of the two hour class, she's exhausted (but thankful) from the steadfast laws of physics.

She returns home, ready to throw her books down and retire to bed for a much-needed nap – but there is a bouquet on her desk.

Her books meet the ground with a reassuring _thud_, and Ariadne's frustration and pain and exhaustion are forgotten when she fingers the soft fringes of the crimson flowers on her desk. A soft scent wafts up to her nose, and she buries her face in the silky embrace of the reddish blooms. As she retreats, suddenly calm, she notices a cream colored card on her desk bearing the title "Ariadne."

She fumbles to open the card, overjoyed when she sees the sloppy handwriting inside.

_Darling,_

_I figured you'd be quite annoyed with our absence and seeming lack of affection for our young architect. While I can't say where the others are, nor where I am, know that you're on our minds. _

_You should also take comfort in the fact that I am, by far, the most emotionally intuitive member of our ragtag little team. Whereas the others might expect you to wait for months for them to call, I am too smart for that. These asters symbolize patience. Don't take that as a sign that you'll have to wait much longer for them to come get you. Instead, view them as a thank you for your waiting and more importantly, a promise that I will come get you soon. _

_E_

_P.S._

_You might think me foolish to reveal so much in this little note as it easily could have fallen in the wrong hands. Nonsense. A true gentleman, such as myself, delivers flowers himself. Ariadne, my dear, you must come up with a more original place to hide your spare key than under your doormat. _

She doesn't know whether to laugh or cry at the card, so she does a little of both. The asters seem to glow more brightly in the afternoon sun being thrown through her window, as if powered by the overwhelming affection that is now unfettered by her doubt.

She doesn't need her bishop to affirm that this is reality. She is part of a team. It was silly of her to think otherwise.

* * *

**And we have our beginning!**

**PLEASE let me know what you think of this so far. I hope to be posting the next chapter soon!**

**Vehe**


	2. Chapter 2

**wHello everyone!**

**I had a much easier time writing this chapter than the first one. I hope you guys like it!**

**For those of you wondering when the rest of the team will come into the story, don't worry. They'll pop up eventually. Eames is very much breaking the rules by being with her – not that he cares – but he's necessary right now for the plot. Everyone will pop up soon though!**

**Thank you's:**

**BlackxValentine:** Thank you for being my first review! I hope you like the next chapter!

**Wednesday:** Thank you! Characterization is really important to me, so I'm glad you feel that I did it right. Let me know what you think of Eames in this chapter!

**Legal-Assassin-006:** Thanks! I hope this update was fast enough!

**Anbu Fox:** I'm glad you liked her confidence. So many other fics start off with Ariadne having a complete breakdown in the airport. While there's nothing wrong with that, my Ariadne just seemed a little stronger. We'll see where this goes though – I'm sure she'll have plenty of weak moments.

**Lyricalmadness:** I'm glad I intrigue you! I hope you like the next chapter!

**Platypus Core:** Thank you! As I said to Wednesday, characterization is really important to me. I'm still figuring out just who my characters are, but I hope you like where I take them!

**Dragonflamecrystal:** Thank you so much! Let me know what you think of this next chapter!

**Chels:** I'm glad you like my portrayal of our leading lady! Thank you!

**LoquaciousLilLovely:** Thank you! I hope you enjoy the second chapter too!

**Now, on to the story!**

**Disclaimer****: **I do not own _Inception_. If I did, I wouldn't waste my time with these silly high school boys because I could hang out with Arthur and Eames.

Three days later, she's at home making dinner. A pot bubbles enthusiastically on the stove, as if beckoning to the pasta she's about to cook. The little window throws sunset-colored light throughout the kitchen, bathing the room in the same shade as the asters now blooming on her desk. Edith Piaf sings softly from her iPod speakers, and Ariadne hums along with "Non, je ne regrette rien."

She's waltzing around the kitchen when she feels a foreign set of eyes on the back of her neck. Clutching the kitchen knife, she turns around slowly.

"EAMES!" The knife clangs to the floor as Ariadne rushes to hug the grinning forger. She throws her arms around his neck and he laughs, scooping her up and swinging her in a circle.

"Hello darling," he greets her as he sets her down, blue eyes dancing. "Aren't you going to ask me how I got in here?"

"No," she shakes her head, still giddy from his sudden presence. "I don't care. But now that you bring it up, I'm guessing you used my spare key."

"Oh no, darling, that was unnecessary. Your door was unlocked." She throws her head back and laughs, amused by her stupidity and overjoyed by the fact that this man is standing right in _front_ of her, flesh and blood, as if the almost three weeks of separation never happened. He looks at her as if he's going to scold her, but then seems to think better of it. "It's alright, I suppose – men like me don't walk in every day of your life, so your temporary disregard for your safety is forgiven."

"I'm not insane," she sputters between laughs, "I'm just happy you're here!"

"Well then, let's hope you're this happy when I berate you tomorrow for being careless," he chides, eyes gleaming. "Have you eaten?"

"Actually, I was just making dinner –"

"Diced tomatoes don't make much of a dinner."

"I'm boiling pasta too!"

"It appears not," he answers, striding into the kitchen, "as the pasta is all still in the box." He holds up the blue cardboard as evidence, and she blushes.

"I was –"

"So busy singing to Edith Piaf that you forgot to actually cook your meal?" he asks. "Now, princess, is it prudent to play the song we use while waking up from dreaming when you're not on a job?"

"What?" she protests, crossing her arms. "I like the song!"

"Cobb or Arthur would say that the song is only to be used while dreaming."

"Did you just compare yourself to Arthur?" she asks, arching an eyebrow.

"No, darling, why insult myself? Arthur is half as good-looking as I am."

"And twice as smart as you."

"Oh he's ten times as smart as me, but that all depends on how you define intelligence," he smiles. "Personally, I consider the ability to smile and interact with people to be a mark of intellect but –"

"I just like the song, Eames," she says, stopping his belittling of the point man. "I don't need a song to tell me whether I'm dreaming or not."

His smirk gives way to a full smile that lights his ruggedly handsome face. She smiles as he beams at her, overcome with pent-up affection. "Ariadne, you are far wiser than you give yourself credit for." She blushes again and looks down. She can't see him, but he shakes his head knowingly. "How about some dinner?"

Her eyes are already oriented at her sloppy outfit of a wrinkled t-shirt and paint-stained jeans. "I don't think I'm dressed well enough to go out," she concedes, looking up again.

"Then you can change!" he answers triumphantly, striding into her bedroom.

"Wait, Eames, what are you doing?" she asks nervously as he opens her armoire. Her bedroom is already a mess, littered with dirty laundry and clothes that she hasn't bothered to put away. Yet the forger seems unbothered by the mess as he sifts through the few clothes she has on hangers.

"I'm trying to find you something nice to wear," he answers, pulling out a red cardigan and handing it to her.

She laughs at the situation, Eames's neatness in his casual beige suit and white shirt compared to her slovenly appearance. She never expected herself to find Eames telling her how to dress. "Is this seriously happening?" she asks, stifling a laugh.

"Yes, because I'm hungry and I don't feel like eating second rate food. Somewhere in here, there must be a dress…ah!" he exclaims, triumphantly pulling a pale pink frock from the depths of her armoire. "Now get changed so we can eat!"

"I never pictured you to be a man who would pick out a girl's clothes for her," she half-jokes, shooing him out of the room. As she takes off her shirt, she quietly walks to her bedside table, where her totem rests on worn wood. She flicks it over backwards and it falls, quickly rolling over so it lies facedown. Just like it should.

"Darling, you severely underestimate me," he replies through her shut door, and she beams at the fact that he's _really there_. "You've seen me forge as a woman before. Do you seriously think I've never been in a situation where I had to put together an outfit for the job?"

"I just figured you like playing dress up." She laughs as she imagines the look on his face.

"Ariadne, you wound me," he responds lightly.

"You did call me wise," she says, fumbling with the zipper on her dress. She could zip it up to about her shoulder blades, but after that the zipper was out of her reach.

"And that will be the last compliment I give you for a long time," he answers as she steps through the door.

"Will you help me zip my dress?" she asks, turning. She feels his fingers nimbly pull the rest of the fabric together.

"I'd say you look lovely, if I were still complimenting you," he says, eyes gleaming.

She laughs in response. As she pulls on her red cardigan and knots a beige scarf around her neck, she asks, "Where are we going?"

"You'll see."

They're nestled in an upscale bistro near the Eiffel Tower. She daintily eats her orange duck plate while he savors his lobster. She's charmed again by the nightlife of Paris, how, although she's lived here for almost two years, everything seems alive and new. As she glances up at the glittering _tour_ _d'eiffel,_ she wonders if the sensation is due to his presence.

"Where did you go?" she asks, sipping her red wine.

"Cairo," he responds before another bite of lobster. "What about you?"

"I came back to Paris," she answers, slightly taken aback by the question. Where else would she go?

He smiles. "Just like the good girl you are." She's not sure if the words make her feel uncomfortable or proud, so she returns to her meal and lets the conversation drift off for a while.

"Have you heard from the others?" she asks eventually.

"No," he says, sipping from his glass. "Although I heard Cobb made it home safely." The confirmation of his safe return makes her feel all fuzzy inside – she's glad he got his happy ending.

"Do we have a job?" she asks, spearing another forkful of duck.

"No," he answers simply.

She's not sure how to word her next question, as she doesn't want to offend him. "Then why are you here, Eames?" she says softly, eyes intent upon his face.

He rotates his wrist, swirling his Manhattan before taking another sip. "Because you need training."

"In what?" He's sparked her curiosity, but more importantly, he's reassured her that she _is_ part of this team. If he was going to train her, then obviously he felt the need to keep her around.

He turns his gaze towards her, and a hint of seriousness has crept into his eyes. "I believe, Ariadne, that the better question may be 'what _don't _you need training in?'"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Now don't get defensive," he says, playfulness returning to his voice. "Admittedly, you learned a lot on the Fischer job. But you learned it all under duress – you had no proper training."

She sips from her wine glass, mildly mollified. "I think I did pretty well given the circumstances."

"You did brilliantly, darling!" he smiles, and she's no longer insulted. "But we shouldn't demand that you learn on your feet. You'll be far more useful if you know what you're doing, especially in the field."

It takes a second for his words to sink in, but when they do a smile lights up her features so much that she rivals the Eiffel Tower. "Does – does that mean I get to go into the dreams with you?"

"What else would we do with you?"

"Arthur said that –"

"Bah," he grimaces, sipping his drink. "Why do you put so much stock into what Arthur says?" She smiles and shakes her head at him – she'll never understand why he and Arthur constantly need to bicker, but she'll be amused by it nonetheless. Eames, however, is not one to let the potential for a joke go. "I realize I might not be Sir Lancelot with his perfect lips, but I believe my opinions deserve some consideration as well."

"What are you talking about?" she sputters, and he knows he got her.

"Ariadne, darling, do you not remember sharing a little kiss with our point man in the hotel lobby?"

"How – how do you know about that?" She's fully blushing now, her face somewhere between the color of her dress and her sweater.

He shrugs nonchalantly but she can tell that he's enjoying making her squirm. "Oh, I may have been some busty blonde at the moment, but I still had eyes." His gaze twinkles with amusement. "Although I must say, I never pictured Arthur as the type to steal a kiss –"

"Stop –"

"Ariadne, there's nothing to be ashamed of. Our Arthur is a very attractive man, and sometimes, when a pretty girl meets a handsome boy, they –"

"Eames –"

"It's perfectly natural, Ariadne, I don't see why you're making such a big deal out of –"

"_Eames!"_ she hisses, her face deeply flushed. Eames chuckles, and she debates throwing her fork at him.

"So someone has a little crush on our point man," he teases warmly. "Don't worry, your secret is safe with me."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Thankfully, the waiter interrupts their conversation and Ariadne profusely compliments the food in perfect French. Eames manages to mumble out a few half-coherent phrases, and Ariadne manages to conceal her laughter as the waiter attempts to understand him.

She manages to keep the conversation away from Arthur as they leave the restaurant. His car is sleek, black, and very James Bond – very Eames. She's still overjoyed by his sudden appearance.

Eames looks over to the glowing girl beside him and smiles warmly. He remembers what it's like – being called back after the first job and realizing that yes, you really are wanted in this profession. His first team had waited eight months before inviting him to rejoin the group. He's glad he spared the young architect that pain.

"Are we going to the warehouse?" she asks suddenly.

"I wasn't planning on it – why?"

"Well, you said you wanted to train me, and it's only about eight o'clock," she answers, desperately trying to keep her overbearing enthusiasm out of her voice. "I figured we could start tonight."

"Aren't you tired?" he asks. "You had class today."

"Please," she snorts in response. "It's not like class is particularly taxing."

"Well, I should very much say that you should go home and go to bed because you have class tomorrow, but I'm never one to spoil a party," he shrugs, rerouting the car towards the warehouse. "Nor am I one to encourage moral behavior. You really shouldn't listen to me."

"Thank you Eames!" She sounds like a little girl who's just been told by Santa that she'll get a pony. Rarely does Eames feel true affection towards anyone, but this girl has him feeling – and acting – like the older brother that he was so long ago.

"If Miles asks why you're so tired tomorrow, blame it on Arthur," he shrugs, careful to keep his sentiments to himself.

"Why do I always have to blame it on Arthur? Why can't I blame it on Yusuf, or Cobb?"

"Cobb would never let you let Miles down," Eames says as he parks the car in the alley beside the warehouse. "Yusuf, you can blame it on all you want. But is that really fair to the innocent chap?"

She debates pointing out that Arthur is just as innocent as Yusuf is, but she's too caught up in her excitement to bother with Eames's teasing. She's already at the door when Eames opens the trunk, pulling out a silver PASIV case that makes her heart leap with joy.

"Would you hurry up?"

Eames swings the trunk shut. "Patience is a virtue, darling." He purposely walks to the door a little slower than he would usually.

"Didn't you just finish telling me that you're not a particularly moral person?"

"Did I? Always getting in my own way." He retrieves the key from his pocket and shoves it in the lock. He feels the scrape of metal when the bolt turns, and Ariadne actually laughs with happiness as the ancient mahogany door swings open. She bounds up the five stairs leading to the main level, a smiling Eames following her.

Everything is just as she left it. Tattered lawn furniture is scattered in a half-circle around the whiteboard and easel. Cobb and Arthur's desks are still scattered with stacks of paper. She can still smell the chemicals from Yusuf's corner of the space. As she rounds the corner leading to her little area, she's overjoyed at the sight of utility knifes and Styrofoam and an oversized corkboard littered with pictures of buildings, mazes, and locations. She returns to the great room, where Eames debating what to do with the three-week old cup of coffee still sitting on his desk.

"Fancy some coffee?" he jokes. He laughs at her grimace before setting the cup down. Although the bathroom isn't a far walk from his desk, he can dump it out later.

She's already setting the PASIV up on a table between two lawn chairs. "A little eager, are we now?" he asks. She decides to ignore him, taking a lead and swabbing her arm with disinfectant.

"What are we learning first?" she asks as she plunges the needle in her wrist, taping it securely. Eames steps forward and swiftly does the same. She sits down while he sets the timer for ten minutes. As she watches him she notices something she's ever seen before – a tiny dial that, when turned, lights up a pale blue light next to a certain lead. He turns the dial so that the light is illuminated at his own marker.

"What's that do?" she questions curiously.

"This determines who is the subject of the dream." He turns another knob, causing an amber light to circle around the center of the PASIV until it too comes to rest at Eames's lead. "This one specifies who the dreamer is."

"So you're both the subject and the dreamer."

He nods. "You'll be dealing with my subconscious and I'll also be creating the dream."

"What are we learning?" she asks again.

He sits in a lawn chair before answering. "Interrogation. Let's see how good of a detective you are, princess."

She smiles at the challenge. Eames reaches over with his free hand and presses the spongy button at the PASIV's center, and Ariadne feels the rush of chemicals in her wrist as she drifts off into a warm sleep.

**Where will Ariadne wake up? What will she learn? You'll see in the next chapter!**

**A lot of **_**Inception**_** fics include Ariadne's training. While I DEFINITELY think this is important, I promise mine won't be as cut-and-dry as most others. I think I view the dream world a little differently than most other people, so Ariadne's in for some interesting lessons.**

**But on the topic of Ariadne's espionage training, is there anything specifically that you think she should learn? I'm open to ideas.**

**Please review!**

**Vehe**


	3. Chapter 3

**Hello again!**

**I apologize for the slight delay in posting this chapter. Unlike the last installment, this one took a little longer to come to me. Also, I'm not feeling well, so if there's some incoherency in this chapter, PLEASE let me know. I'm hoping it's more consistent than I perceive it to be.**

**Thank You's:**

**BlackxValentine:** Thank you! I love the idea of Ariadne and Eames being almost sibling-like. And no worries, our point man will show his face soon enough

**Dragonflamecrystal:** Thank you! Eames is really fun to write, and I hope I'm keeping him in character. Thanks for your suggestions – both of those will be covered!

**Wednesday:** Thank you! I'm glad you find everyone to be in character. I've probably watched _Inception_ ten times trying to make sure I get everyone exactly right. And Arthur will show up eventually!

**Legal-Assassin-006:** Thank you! I'm glad you like my Eames. I hope you enjoy this next chapter too!

**Obsessionist97:** I figured coffee was acidic enough not to mold over – gross! I don't think I could describe moldy coffee haha. Thanks for reviewing!

**L.C. Li: **Thanks! Especially thank you for saying I have good grammar – mechanics are a big deal in my opinion, so I'm glad I'm following the rules! I'm glad you like the characterizations as well. Enjoy the next chapter and the ever-continuing romantic tension!

**Disclaimer:** I don't own _Inception_. If I did, Ariadne would share some of her fabulous scarves with me.

* * *

She found herself sitting at a corner booth in the back of a British pub. Smoky air flits around her as she takes in her surroundings. Several wooden booths like her own border the perimeter of the expanse, all with crimson leather cushions and polished, though worn, mahogany tables. A few families sit at these tables, but the seats are mostly occupied by men of all ages, save for the occasional woman. Above her, dusty ceiling lamps glow through the hazy atmosphere, painting the room in a light typical of a bar. Several billiard tables are stationed directly beneath the lights, surrounded by a crowd of about two dozen boisterous men. Past the pool tables is a bar, evidently aged by the appearance of its stained wood. Three bartenders serve patrons perched on barstools padded by the same dark leather found in the booths. Finally, several football (the _real_ kind, she can almost hear Eames saying in her head) matches and one rugby match are broadcasted from the several flat-screen TV's throughout the establishment.

Ariadne's eyes finally flicker to Eames, who is engrossed in the fate of West Ham United. He throws a hand up in disgust when a referee presents a yellow card to one of the team's players, and Ariadne makes no attempt to stifle her amused laughter.

"What?" he protests, annoyed. He glances at her for a mere fraction of a second, but his irritation is almost palpable in his gaze. "This is important, and that bloody ref –"

"Eames, we're dreaming," she replies, bemused. "The match you're watching isn't even real." _And therefore unimportant,_ she adds mentally, but she knows better than to degrade the status of sports in a nearly all-male establishment.

"It's my subconscious's projection of the match I missed earlier today. Apparently, my subconscious doesn't think my team did very well."

She rolls her eyes pointedly – a gesture which he misses, since the forger's attention is on the screen. "Where are we, anyway?" she asks, attempting to get him to focus on the task at hand. "I thought we came here to train, not to watch soccer."

"_Football_," he corrects her without looking. "And will you _be quiet?_ I'm trying to watch the match!"

For whatever reason, his blatant shrugging her off upsets her more than it should, and the pair spends the next few minutes in mulish silence.

He finally answers her, not looking away from the screen. "We're at Churchill's. It's a pub near where I grew up."

"Didn't Cobb say never to recreate from memory?" The petulance in her tone is obvious, but she doesn't really care.

"Again, Ariadne, so much faith in Cobb! What did he do, write a bloody textbook?" She hopes his irritation is stemmed from another bad call by the ref, not her. She realizes that she's not being fair – if she's angry with him then he has more than enough right to be angry at her, but she hopes to eventually get somewhere with this "lesson."

"Cobb was the only person who ever really trained me – except for Arthur, but that was more on how to actually build effective mazes in dreams. Cobb –" She's not sure how to continue, but she blunders on anyways, attempting to keep her words civil, "Cobb was sort of the professor, while Arthur was more of the teacher's assistant, if that makes sense."

The forger grumbles before taking a surly sip of his drink. A commercial has flashed across the screen, advertising some brand of toothpaste she's never heard of, and Eames (finally) turns his attention back towards her. "Cobb said never to build from memory?" he asks her shortly, and she questions whether he was really listening at all.

"Yes," she replies, irritated. He's being ambiguous and rude and all she wants to do is _learn_ and he's sitting there, nursing a drink that she's sure would knock her over and watching _football_, of all things –

"Well that's because Cobb was obsessed with knowing the lines between dreaming and reality. Some of us," he pauses to take another sip, "don't need that distinction."

"What do you mean?" Honestly, she had no intention of learning about the former ringleader when she entered this dream, but hey – so long as Eames is focused on _her_ and not that damned television, she'll take anything. Also, she's now intrigued by the secrets that Eames is apparently about to reveal about Cobb – but that's beside the point.

He sighs and traces the rim of his glass with his index finger. "Cobb…never really wanted to believe that Mal could be so mistaken, so _wrong_." There is a twinge in his voice – regret? – that makes Ariadne wonder how well Eames knew Mal before she…attempted to wake up. "He and Mal were so incredibly close. After she – died," he falters, "Cobb became obsessed with separating reality from fantasy. He pretended it was because he feared for the safety of his colleagues, that he didn't want any of us to fall in love with the same fallacy that Mal did, but truthfully, he was terrified of believing the lie that killed her."

"So that's why he was so adamant to create, not resurrect." She remembers Cobb's dream though, how he defied his own rules by building a prison of memories in which Mal was still his. But she's not sure if Eames knows about that, and out of respect for the former extractor, she keeps that tidbit to herself.

"Precisely." His blue eyes are earnest, and again she sees a glimpse of that deep affection he keeps disguised beneath his layers of humor and nonchalance.

"But you're not obsessed with reality," she guesses.

A smile graces his rugged features, and she's happy to see a familiar light dance back into his sea-colored gaze. "No, I'm not," he replies. "Which is why I brought you here."

"To a pub?"

"Not just any pub, love. This is the pub I grew up in!" There's a fondness in his voice and she can't help but smiling. "I learned to drink here! I learned to play pool, how to pick up women, how to bluff and stack a deck and all sorts of adolescent goodness that's essential to my lifestyle."

She laughs openly, and it feels good. The earlier tension has broken, giving way to the characteristic Eames and Ariadne banter that she's always, if secretly, adored. "So what am I supposed to learn here? How to take shots and yell at a soccer game?"

"_Football_," he stubbornly corrects her again. "And no, dear Ariadne, I won't waste your time here teaching you things that would be so much more fun to teach you in the real world." His resulting smirk makes her grimace – unpleasant thoughts of Eames laughing while Ariadne sloppily fell off a barstool fill her head. It's not Ariadne's picture of a good time, and she's sure that, if that were to ever happen, Eames would never let her live it down.

"So…if I'm not learning about _football_, then what am I doing?"

"You're learning the inner workings of the subconscious – more specifically, one that's been trained," he explains. "I had to bring you somewhere familiar so that my unconscious self would feel safe. And even though I'm the one creating this dream, every detail must be perfect. Although consciously I know that I'm in charge here, this is such a well-loved place to me that even the slightest detail would tip the projections off."

The architect struggles to wrap her mind around this. "Are you saying that your subconscious doesn't trust you?" Even the idea sounds ridiculous, but she has to ask anyway.

"That, my dear, is exactly what I'm saying."

"Why?" she blurts out. She's embarrassed at her lack of tactfulness, but Eames doesn't seem to mind.

"Do you want to know why there are so few successful forgers in this business?" He leans forward slightly, blue eyes intense. "It's because forging ultimately depends on the ability to abandon one identity and adopt another. You don't just imitate a person – you _personify_ them. And that requires losing sight of one's true self. You must abandon your identity in order to become someone else."

"But how does that lead to your subconscious not trusting you?"

"Well, I'm constantly telling myself that I'm someone who I'm not. But in order for true forgery to take place, my cognizant mind has to believe the lies I'm telling myself. So we get into a situation where my conscious thinks one thing while my subconscious believes another, and it ends up as a rather sticky matter." The nonchalance with which he explains that his own _subconscious_ doesn't trust his _own mind_ is astounding.

It takes her a moment to absorb all this. "So…your subconscious would attack you?"

He purses his lips as he looks off into the distance. "In some instances, yes," he finally replies, eyes snapping back to his architect. "But only in a situation where the dream was defying what my subconscious _absolutely_ knew to be true. For example, take this bar. I could come here as either myself or that blonde – do you remember her? Or were you too captured by Mr. Point Man's lips that – "

"_Eames."_

"Just checking, darling, no need to be defensive," he ribs playfully, earning him an eye roll for seemingly the umpteenth time that night. "Anyway, I could come here, either as me or her, so long as I designed it – I know this place so well that my mind can recreate every minute detail to the point of generating a perfect replica. However, if someone else tried to reciprocate this pub and then thrust me into the situation, my subconscious would attack. And I doubt it'd spare me, because it doesn't fully trust me since I'm constantly changing who I am." he adds, taking another sip of his drink.

"So, the point of this whole conversation was to teach me to tread carefully when recreating places viewed fondly by a trained subconscious?"

"I think that's about right, yes." He leans across the table again, eyes gleaming. "Basically, I'm saying that you shouldn't thrust the mark into a situation where his subconscious might realize that something is wrong before you even interact with the projections."

She nods, absorbing all this information. Ariadne's still astounded by the secrets of forgery, but Eames refuses to let his young companion dwell on such trivial matters. He had been doing this for what seemed like a lifetime. There was no need to burden the young architect with the tribulations of his profession, especially when he forged so well; however, if she wished to remain in the extraction business, she had to know why she couldn't just waltz around, looking for a forger.

He decides to break the girl's focus before her beautiful mind can process anything more about his calling. "Which leads me to lesson two," he begins. Her eyes, alert and intelligent, snap up from the worn mahogany.

"Lesson two?"

"Interacting with projections." He finishes off his drink before signaling to the barman to bring him another. "What all do you know about them?"

"Well," she answers tentatively, "I know that they're physical embodiments of the subconscious. And I know that even if you kill them, you're not killing those parts of the person's mindset."

"Right. Projections are merely physical embodiments of the subconscious. You can kill them physically, but the opinions behind them still exist. Furthermore, the next time that person dreams, those projections are recreated. In order to _truly_ kill a projection, you'd have to kill the idea. Which, as we both know, is damn near impossible."

"'Damn near impossible?'" she quotes him with raised eyebrows.

"Well think about it. Once you have an idea, you never _un_have it. You can put that idea out of your mind, disregard it, decide against it, or ignore it all together, but you never _destroy_ it."

She nods – everything he's saying is making sense. But she's still curious. "Can you ever destroy an idea, though?"

The barman has brought Eames his second drink, which he now swigs thoughtfully. "I suppose it's possible," he muses. "But bloody difficult. Makes inception look like a cakewalk."

She giggles at this analogy and he smiles. "So," she continues, "since projections are the embodiment of a person's subconscious, you can talk to them to get information, right?"

"Right, darling. However, sometimes the best way to discern information is to merely watch the projections. Look around the room right now. What do you notice?"

"Um," she mumbles as she looks while not knowing quite what she's looking _for,_ "there are lots of men playing pool and watching sports."

"Aside from the obvious, please."

Ariadne hates failing a challenge, so she looks closer. "Um, all of the men seem to be drinking." She squints, attempting to find something that's right in front of her nose. "Wine!" she proudly exclaims after a moment. "None of the men are drinking wine!"

"Well done, Ariadne!" praises the forger. "But are none of the men drinking wine because I don't like wine? Or is it because we're in a bar and no self-respecting man drinks wine while playing pool?"

He has her there, but only for a moment. "You don't particularly care for wine. You'll drink it – that's shown by the fact that there _is_ wine being drunk," she explains, gesturing to the patrons, "but as few people as possible are drinking it. Also, someone at the bar just asked the bartender for a glass of wine, and he made a sour face."

Eames chuckles and nods his head. "You're right – I find wine to be more of a woman's drink, but I'll indulge if I must. But how could you tell if I absolutely _hated_ wine?"

"Well, there'd be no wine in here at all, right?"

"What about if I loved wine?"

He didn't answer her question, but she's guessing she's on the right track. "Then there'd be as many patrons possible drinking wine, with only a few exceptions."

"Why the few exceptions?"

"Well, it'd be really unusual for a restaurant to serve only wine."

"And what if I just _liked_ wine?"

"There'd be a fair share of people drinking it, but not so much as to seem unusual."

"Ariadne, my darling, you truly are a genius!" Both forger and architect are smiling widely, and the latter blushes at the former's compliment. "Well done, love. Noticing little details like that can give you tremendous insight into a person's mind."

"But isn't that rather subjective?"

"Oh, of course it is! However, noticing what's there can help you notice what's _not_ there. And if you realize what's missing, you can avoid situations that would pit the subconscious against you."

"What about stuff that's not so black-and-white, like your scenario where you only _liked_ wine?"

"In that case, you can discern what the mark views as acceptable behavior. Remember, our entire human mindset is built off of details. Paying attention to these details, no matter how miniscule they may seem, helps us understand who the mark is. But more importantly, it allows you to fit in," he swigs his drink with a smile. "And if you fit in, then the projections are more likely to talk to you."

She's beginning to understand. "Alright. So, do all projections have the same amount of knowledge?"

"Another good question!" he smiles warmly. "It would be extremely unlikely for every projection in a person's mind to know everything. First, the projections would seem like robots, and the subconscious wouldn't fill the world with robots because, well, the world isn't filled with robots. However, a more open person might have projections that know more about them. For example, if you hide very little about yourself from others, why would your projections be any different? Conversely, a more guarded person would have projections that know a little bit about that person individually, but very little when it comes to the grand scale."

"But you can't ask a projection, 'Hey, what does Bob think of tomatoes?' right?"

"Right. The projection wouldn't know what you're talking about – which would probably make him uncomfortable and therefore risk exposing you. But you can ask something like 'What do you think of tomatoes?' and get away with it, so long as the mark doesn't have an extreme like or dislike of the fruit in question."

"Why does the extremity of the opinion matter?"

"Because the more extreme of an opinion a person has, the more likely their subconscious is to pick up on that. For example, if I _hated wine_, there would be no wine in here, right? So what would happen if you were to come in drinking a glass of it?"

"Your projections would automatically dislike me…because I'm performing an act that, in your ideal world, is socially taboo," she finishes.

"Precisely! Remember in the world of dreaming, the subject creates their _ideal world_. Noticing behavior allows you to pick up on these ideals."

Ariadne feels it all coming together. She fondly remembers her first conversation with Cobb about dreams, how she described true creation as a discovery, not a search. She feels those same cogs meshing together in her mind, and as her mental machine works faster and faster, she feels her thoughts working with power that they never knew they possessed.

Eames smiles brightly at her. "I don't think I need to say any more, love. Why don't you give it a go?"

She grins in response, always ready for a challenge. The petite architect stands from the booth and makes her way to the bar, where she sits next to a middle-aged man engrossed in his newspaper.

A young barman immediately meets her. "What would you like?" he asks in a gentle English accent.

"Um, a gin and tonic, please." She's never had one before, but it seems like the type of drink Eames would approve of. And Ariadne – who actually _likes_ wine – isn't about to accidentally trigger an unfriendly response from the man sitting next to her. She realizes her mistake – she has absolutely no knowledge of English news. Although she can forge a building out of thin air in the dream world, she's not sure if she can spin a conversation out of thin air.

Luckily, the bartender returns with her drink, and she decides that he's far more likely to provide useful conversation. "Thank you," she starts, attempting to sip her drink nonchalantly. "Busy day?"

"No busier than normal," he replies, wiping of the section of bar in front of him with a wet rag. "Typical Thursday, you know."

She notes this fact, because she's almost certain that when she went under, it had been Tuesday. However, Ariadne's not sure how important the change of day is. But before she can ask the bartender any more questions, a group of older gentlemen sit down at the bar and he goes to serve them.

Ariadne turns on her barstool to look over the pub. She glimpses at Eames, who is apparently trying not to laugh, and her resolve to figure _something_ out is doubled. A group of four men about her age are playing pool at the billiards table farthest from Eames; Ariadne decides to try her luck there.

"Hello, boys," she greets the four cheerfully. She's trying to emulate every confident woman she's ever seen saunter up to a few men playing pool and successfully conduct conversation. Which, admittedly, she's never seen a woman do.

"Hello, love," a blond man greets her. He's tall, about Arthur's height, but looks to be twenty at most. He gives her a cocky smile and she attempts to flirt back.

"Stakes high?" she inquires, sipping her so-not-Ariadne drink.

"They might be a little higher, now that you're here," he winks. She feels a blush creeping up her cheeks, and silently wonders if all of Eames's subconscious is this charming. The man deftly shoots the cue ball and knocks a striped ball into a corner pocket.

"Wouldn't it have been easier to hit that into the side pocket?" she casually inquires, swirling her drink as she smiles at the man.

"Life's not about what's easy, love," he responds, hitting another ball into the opposite corner pocket. "But instead about what shots you know you can bank."

"If you say so," she shrugs. The man after him shoots another ball into the corner pocket.

"So do you come here often?" he asks casually. Ariadne inwardly groans at the unoriginal pickup line.

"Occasionally. What about you?"

"Every Thursday night. These chaps here," he gestures to his tablemates, "seem to think they can beat me in pool. So every week I prove them wrong and every Thursday night I'm about twenty Euros richer." He finishes with a broad smile which lights his dimpled face.

"Oh really? I'll have to remember to stop by more often." It's her turn to wink at him, and she does so as she turns her back and returns to Eames, who is engrossed in his soccer – _football _– match again.

"Learn anything, love?"

"You and your friends used to come here every Thursday night and play pool when you were young."

"And how'd you come to that?" His voice is noncommittal, and she's not so sure if she should continue.

"Um, well you told me earlier that you grew up in this pub. That guy over there," she says, gesturing to the blond, "says he and his friends come here every Thursday. I'm also guessing that you learned to pick up ladies through your uncanny brilliance at pool."

"More so the first part than the second part, yes. Anything else?"

She feels almost silly sharing the next fact. "Uh, you have a tendency to shoot for the corner pockets in pool."

Eames's dancing gaze breaks from the television and settles on her. "Bloody good job, love. You did a far better job than –"

But Eames's words are lost as the Churchill's crumbles away and Ariadne feels like she is being pulled from a river, up out of a peaceful current and into stark, cold reality.

* * *

**And there's more, but I'm not feeling well enough to continue writing coherently right now.**

**Churchill's is based off of everything I read in about fifteen minutes about British pubs. West Ham United (which is NOT MINE) is the favored team in East Sheen, London, where Tom Hardy (the actor who plays Eames) grew up. I wanted to use a popular pub from that area, but every one that I researched didn't have the almost-seedy feel I wanted. **

**Please let me know what you think! I'd love to hear your opinions.**

**Vehe**


	4. Chapter 4

**Hello everyone!**

**First of all, I owe a HUGE thank you to ****gretlcascade**** for pointing out a major flaw in my writing. Remember how I said I was sick when I wrote the last chapter? While I wrote Eames as disliking wine, he was drinking it in Chapter Two. Blame it on the mono. That's fixed now! I updated the chapter so he's drinking a Manhattan. **

**Anyway, on to our regular shout-outs:**

**BlackxValentine:** Your reviews never cease to make me laugh. You get the Favorite Review award for last chapter! Thanks so much for being such an invested reader.

**L.C. Li:** Thank you! And don't worry, our point man's coming! His entrance is really funny, I promise!

**Platypus Core:** Thank you! That means a lot to me.

**Legal-Assassin-006:** I'm glad you loved it! Thanks for reading!

**Moviemaniac12:** Thanks! And I promise our point man is on his gallant way!

**Andrea the Girl:** Thanks! I hope you enjoy this chapter too!

**Gretlcascade:** Thank you for being, by far, the longest review I've ever gotten! I'm glad you like the story overall. Also, I really appreciate your commentary on my Ariadne/Eames relationship. The last thing I want to do is to write OOC, and I value your heads-up that I'm making them too cheesy. Thanks!

Also, thank you for your opinions on the characterization of Eames and Ariadne separately. You're absolutely right about Ariadne being strong and intelligent. I hope you find her reactions in this chapter more appropriate.

Having said all that, I am planning on continuing the Eames/Ariadne relationship to be sibling-like. Eames will explain his reasoning for this later in the fic. Speaking of Eames and reasoning, that tidbit about erasing an idea was merely an explanation, not foreshadowing. I'm not taking my fic in that direction, because I have a better idea

**JourieLuvzColurz'N'Musick**: Thanks! I hope you like this chapter too!

**ON WITH THE STORY!**

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _Inception_. But I _have_ been having some weird dreams lately.

* * *

" –I thought you would."

They're back in the warehouse again. Eames has already removed the needle from his wrist and is staring intently at her. It takes her a moment to remember what they were talking about; when she does, she realizes that he just admitted to underestimating her. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Well, you actually extracted a little _useful_ information."

He has a point, but she's missing it. "So I failed."

"You didn't fail at all! You managed to figure out how I fondly spent some of my childhood."

"And how is that remotely important?" Skepticism is almost tangible in her voice. Knowing what day of the week he and his school friends used to hang out in a corner bar or how Eames plays pool doesn't seem to be earthshaking information – or so she thinks.

"Well, my subconscious is trained."

"So I didn't get shot. I wouldn't exactly call that a job well done," she voices bitterly.

"Stop being so petulant, Ariadne," the forger urges. Ariadne thinks it's funny that _he's _the one urging her not to be annoying. "My subconscious is not supposed to reveal anything about my childhood, my family, my lifestyle, or anything like that unless it is _absolutely _sure that the person asking belongs."

"What are you saying?" she asks flatly.

"I'm saying that you managed to blend in well enough that my subconscious thought that you were trustworthy. A rather difficult accomplishment, might I add." She looks at him blankly, so he plods on. "What do you know about the trained subconscious?"

"Um, I know that they'll shoot you if they feel threatened."

"Not always. I've trained my subconscious not to give away any pertinent details about my life, regardless of whether they're useful to extraction or not. For example, it'll never give away my mother's name, nor will it give away the name of my primary school teacher that had a heart attack twenty years ago. But you managed to trick me – my subconscious, that is – into divulging a part of my youth."

"Eames, I learned where you played pool when you were like, sixteen."

"Ah, but from that you could figure out the general area in which I lived. Which could be extremely useful," he shrugs.

She cocks her head to the side and thinks for a long moment. "I guess I see what you're saying," she cedes, "but I still think I could have learned more."

"And you're right. But all in all, not bad for a first go. More importantly, I'm proud of you for reading the situation as well as you did."

"What, with the bartender?"

"And the bloke with the Times. Neither of them would have given you any information, so you instinctively moved on to the most likely person in the room to talk to you. It's like real life, love. Who do you go to for information, the Bobby in charge of a homicide investigation or the innocent bloke who happened to watch the whole thing?"

"The…innocent guy."

"Precisely. You talk to someone who's more likely to trust you, which is exactly what you did."

"But I still didn't find much out."

"That's something else about interrogating projections – it's not really useful, in my opinion. We rarely have time on jobs to talk to whoever's nearby, and even if we do, we rarely get anything useful. And unless you really know what you're doing, you'll more than likely raise suspicion. More trouble than it's worth, really."

"So you taught me something that's essentially useless." It was meant as a question, but the architect's tone morphs it into more of a statement.

"Oh, not at all! Interrogation can prove quite useful in the right situations. In my experiences, I've just rarely found myself in that right situation."

She laughs and shakes her head. "So, a summary of our little lesson –"

"Oh goody!" he teases, clapping his hands together. "I used to _love_ it when my teachers did this in grade school! Made it much easier for chaps like me pretend we had listened to the lesson."

Ariadne rolls her eyes before continuing. "When trying to interrogate a trained mark, attempt to blend in with their projections by noticing behavior and patterns. To get information, talk to someone that would be likely to talk to you. However, interrogation, for the most part, is –"

"Rubbish," he finishes for her.

"I was going to say useless. Oh, and your subconscious doesn't trust you, but it won't militarize against someone suspicious."

"Oh no, love. It'll bloody well shoot you, and anyone else for that matter. It just won't tell you anything important _before_ it blows you to bits." He smiles a rueful smile, and despite his gruesome statement that is more of a promise than a description, Ariadne is surprisingly at ease.

* * *

Later on, he's dropping her off at her apartment. She desperately wanted to stay for more training (hopefully in something somewhat _useful_ this time), but the architect wants nothing less than to annoy the forger. So she reigns in her excitement of finally being back in the dreamscape, of finally _creating_ instead of imagining, of truly being part a team for the first time in her life. When Eames asks her if she's tired, she nods and pretends to stifle a yawn.

Later, she'll liken it to when she tried to catch butterflies in her mother's garden when as a child. The first time a swallowtail enchanted her hands with its featherlight touch, she was captivated by the iridescent yellow of its wings, by the gloss in its tiny eyes, by the miniscule legs that impossibly supported the creature. And once that magnificence had left her palm, she spent the rest of the summer trying to coax another to perch on her finger, her shoulder, her head. It was almost autumn when God finally granted her a brief moment with another butterfly, but she spent the rest of the day racing around with a joy her parents only thought possible in children on Christmas morning.

So she leaves the warehouse, knowing she'll be back. It is autumn, and the butterfly has long since left her hand. But the architect knows that once the impossible has happened, it's only a matter of time until it happens again.

Her apartment building slowly comes into view. "Eames, where are you staying?" she asks.

"Around," he replies, and she senses that he's not quite sure himself.

"I've got a couch you can sleep on," she offers.

"That's quite kind of you, but I'll manage," he refuses her kindly.

"Is this because you can't be seen with me too much?" she prods, remembering Arthur's rules, his adamancy that nobody contact each other for at least forty five days.

"And there you go again," he chides lightly, "putting so much stock into our point man's silly words."

"You don't care about your safety?"

"Of course I care about my safety. I just happen to care about yours more."

The car has stopped. Ariadne isn't sure of the exact meaning of Eames's words – how can breaking the rules created for their very wellbeing ensure that she won't get hurt? Yet the forger has such a stoic look on his face that she knows better than to press on. So she doesn't.

"Good night, Ariadne," he says. His eyes are oceanic in the moonlight. So much of the forger is a mystery – behind the wit and the gun and the mismatched outfits that somehow seem to come off as attractive, she realizes that there is a man, buried deep, that she hardly knows. But this…_stranger_ has given up his safety (or at least that's what Arthur convinced her would happen if she stayed too close to a colleague after the Fischer job) in order to help her. She's been taught to be wary of unfamiliar people, but Cobb taught her that sometimes, leaps of faith are necessary.

So she jumps.

"Good night, Eames," she murmurs. "When will I see you again?"

"I'll come find you," he responds. "First, I have to take care of some business."

Her interest is immediately piqued. "Like a job?"

"No, nothing like that. Some…loose ends, if you will."

"Loose ends," she echoes.

"Don't worry about me, darling, I'll be fine," he promises, although she wasn't worried at all. "Get some rest. Go to class. I won't be gone long."

A leap of faith. "See you soon, then."

"Bon soir."

She shuts the door to the sleek car that's so very him. Dark tinted windows obscure the forger from her view, but she knows he's watching as she unlocks the door to her apartment building. She lives on the second floor, but once she's in the main corridor, she's safe.

Her key fits perfectly into the lock. She steps into the doorway with one last look towards an Eames that she cannot see. But as the opening behind her shuts once more, she can almost picture the grin dancing across the forger's handsome face.

A leap of faith.

_Non, je ne regrette rien._

_

* * *

_

**And there we have it!**

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	5. Chapter 5

**Hello everybody!**

**Sorry for the delay in this chapter. I wasn't exactly sure if I was ready to write this one yet, but I put doubt aside and went on anyways. Hopefully you guys like it!**

**For all of you Arthur fans, I can say definitely that he'll pop up within the next few chapters! And he'll be staying for good!**

**Thank You's:**

**Platypus Core****: **He'll be here within the next two chapters, I promise! Thank you so much for reviewing!

**Hefeweizen**: Thanks! I really think that the technical aspects of dreaming are important. Chris Nolan explained a lot in _Inception_, but there's still a lot out there left to be said. I'm one of those people that needs to know exactly how something's happening, so I'm hoping to fill in a lot of those details for my readers. Thanks for reviewing! I can't wait to see what you think of this chapter.

**BlackxValentine**: I always love getting your reviews. I love the Eames/Ariadne friendship as well, and that bond will play a big part in later parts of this fic. Thanks for reading!

**Kats02980416:** Thank you, thank you, THANK YOU for your multiple reviews! Glad to have you on-board. I absolutely love the Eames/Ariadne friendship, but I can definitely say I'm not planning on having it develop into anything more. I'm still trying to figure Eames out – as much as a playful character that he is, there's an underlying serious side to him as well. He's extremely intelligent and well-informed with the dream world. I'm still trying to figure out his story so I can include all those wonderful aspects of him.

I love writing Ariadne's curiosity and drive. She's fun to play around with, and as inexperienced as she is, she catches on quickly and adapts well. I hope you like her as much as I do!

And as far as Arthur goes, he'll be here really soon!

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR REVIEWING!

**Legal-Assassin-006**: Thanks for reviewing! I'm so glad you like my story. Can't wait to hear what you say about this chapter!

**_:** Thanks for reviewing!

**DMCxWTF**: Thanks! I'm glad you like my writing. I really love the idea of Eames taking Ariadne in and teaching her. I'm still figuring out his reasons in my head, but it's gonna be good when he finally explains. And Arthur will be around soon! Let me know what you think of this chapter.

**L.C. Li**: Thanks! I'm glad you like my metaphors

**Kuro Chocobo**: I can promise it only gets more interesting from here on out! I'm glad you like my story and I can't wait to hear what you have to say about this chapter!

**Well, on we go with **_**Physicality**_**!**

**Disclaimer**: I do not own _Inception._

* * *

Four days have passed since she's seen Eames.

Yet the passing of time does not unnerve her. She's gone to class, completed her assignments, and made herself substantial meals, all without even a hint of doubt or loneliness. And despite her brief interaction with the forger, she's flourishing. Buildings and mazes alike seem to spring from the pages of her tattered sketchbook, growing and becoming with each frantic stroke of her pencil. Professor Miles sees it too, leaving notes for her on her assignments that applaud the originality and splendor of her work but beg her to remember that there's no place in Paris for a terracotta palace.

She returns from class on Friday to find a cardstock note folded carefully on her desk. As she picks it up, she feels a small metal object slide from between its folds.

_Ariadne,_

_Six o'clock, darling. Don't be late._

_E_

She does not squeal with delight at this note as she had with the first one; instead, she laughs and shakes her head. The bronze-colored key stands out against her dark wooden desk, and she fingers it warmly. Her initial excitement still pools within her, but unlike before, it does not cluster in her stomach and make her giggle and cry and jump up and down. Instead, it runs freely, unhindered through her blood, familiar and appreciated.

She knew he was coming back.

So she finishes making her dinner (and actually eats most of it) before leisurely making her way to the warehouse. She'll still be ten minutes early, but she won't walk any faster than normal – Ariadne knows now how to remain calm in her anticipation.

Her fingers deftly unlatch the lock with the key Eames has left her, and the old, wooden door almost sighs in relief. She can hear a faint whistling from the upstairs corridor, and a gentle smile tugs at her lips.

"Who knew you'd be one to be early?" she greets her colleague.

He responds with a rueful smile. "Lucky for me, then. I'm still young enough to pull the occasional surprise."

"How was your trip?"

"Productive enough," he responds.

"Loose ends all tied?"

"Loose ends all tied," he affirms. Ariadne knows better than to press for information, so architect and forger drop into a comfortable silence.

Eames pulls the PASIV from its hidden safe, carefully concealed behind a cabinet. His easy stride crosses the room. Ariadne reclines easily in a lawn chair as he sets up the device, and she marvels quietly at how the tattered plastic can feel more comfortable than her memory foam mattress at home.

"Don't fall asleep on me too quickly, love."

Her brown eyes snap back to Eames. "Don't worry, I'm wide awake." She feels a gentle prick at her wrist and the forger has the needle placed and taped before her body can even register the pain associated with the act.

"You know what's funny?"

"Hmm?" he responds, settling himself in the chaise lounge opposite her.

"I used to hate needles," she shrugs calmly.

"I used to hate jellyfish."

"What's that got to do with anything?"

Eames gives her a cryptic smile, reaching over to press the button that will send them into a different reality. "Sometimes the job changes us. Sometimes it doesn't."

She hears the subtle hiss and feels the seeping of chemicals into her left forearm. She tries to make sense of Eames's words, but her response is lost as she is plunged into a comforting darkness.

* * *

"Jellyfish?"

"Oui," he responds. "_Les méduses." _He's shaping the world around them. A wooden table pops up before them at waist height, matched by two panels that create what seems like an altered cubicle. A black expanse stretches before them, enclosed by a concrete ceiling and a concrete floor. The architect can faintly see the silhouette of a man marked on charcoal paper about three hundred meters in front of her.

"We're at a shooting range," she voices quietly as the room finishes before her. Sure enough, a black pistol appears on the wood before her, and she needs no confirmation from Eames.

"Have you ever shot a gun before, Ariadne?"

"I'm an expert with a SuperSoaker," she answers with a cheeky smile.

The forger purses his lips and shrugs. "Good, then. I told Cobb we'd eventually need an architect who was skilled in drenching our mark."

It was meant as a joke, but all humor is forgotten at the mention of Cobb's name. She looks at the gun before her for a long moment before answering. "I shot Mal, once."

To her surprise, Eames's eyes are not on her when he answers. "Did you mean to kill her?" he asks briskly.

His words shock her so much that she almost forgets to answer. "I –I…yes," she finally mumbles.

The forger's posture relaxes, and when he turns to look at her, he almost looks proud. "Then you did the right thing."

"How?"

He reaches forward and grabs the gun, handing it to her. "It seems you already know the first rule of handling firearms."

"What's that?" she asks, utterly lost. The cold metal feels foreign in her grasp, and she wants more than anything for Eames to take it back.

"You only point this," he nods his head to the Glock in her hands, "at something you have full intent on destroying. Guns are not meant to be toys or show objects. They're meant to kill." His normally light tone has taken a stern edge, painting his face in a somber light.

"So…you're saying me killing Mal was alright because I had the intent to kill her?"

"No. Murder is never correct unless necessary, and even then, it's not moral, merely excusable. But you followed the rules by using a gun against someone whose life you meant to take." His pupil is silent, but not in her usual taking-in-the-details silent. As she looks at the weapon in her hands, shock and fear mask her normally expressive eyes, and Eames softens his tone before speaking to her again. "Ariadne, this is serious business. I know it's frightening to comprehend the magnitude of all of this, but it's something you have to learn."

"It's ok because they're not real, right?" she asks him in a small voice.

As badly as he wants to comfort her, he's determined to tell her the truth. "Murder is never 'ok,' as you put it. Yes, killing someone in the dream world is virtually harmless because you're not taking a real life, and it's potentially helpful when you need to wake up a teammate. But _never_ tell yourself killing someone is alright. Every time you watch the life fade from a person before you, real or not, it should be unnerving. That's what keeps you from becoming a monster. If you're never comfortable with murder in the dreamscape, you'll never be comfortable with it in the real world."

"I was trying to protect Cobb," she says, looking him directly in the eye. He realizes that she's never had the chance to talk this out with anyone. Despite her initial meekness, he's impressed by her resolve and faith in her decision.

"And that you did," he affirms. "You were being a good teammate, something that is _always_ acceptable. However, you need to remember that no matter how many times you fire this gun, no matter how many projections you kill, murder itself is never truly justifiable."

"And therefore something I should never be comfortable with," she finishes.

A pregnant pause passes between them, filled with mutual understanding and respect, before Eames returns to his light tone and continues the lesson.

"Second rule," he begins. "Treat every gun as if it's loaded. That way, you never run into any accidents." He continues to teach her the mechanics of the gun and what each part is called. As soon as she's familiar with her weapon, he continues into the actual firing of the pistol.

"Right, then." He takes the gun for her, and positions himself towards the target as if he's going to shoot it. "You hold the gun like this. You're right handed, correct?"

"Yes."

"Good. Then your right hand closes around the side of the gun so your pointer finger can press the trigger. Your bottom hand –"

"'Press' the trigger?" she repeats. "Isn't it usually 'pull the trigger'?"

"You can pull the trigger all you want, darling, but you're only going to jam the gun. Use your pointer finger to quickly press the trigger, and you won't have a problem." His student nods intelligently, absorbing the information. "Your left hand," he continues, "is placed at the bottom of the gun for stability. Your left hand fingers should be able to slightly wrap around your right hand, sort of cocooning the gun. You try."

He hands the gun to her and she shapes her form according to his instruction. "Like this?"

"Good," he critiques, "but do you see how your feet are square with the target?"

"Is that bad?" she asks, noticing her position. Her entire body faces the shooting range before her as Eames comments over her left shoulder.

"Not necessarily, but it'll be impractical when we get into how to move with a weapon. That's later, though," he promises. "But for now, turn your hips a little bit towards me – actually, never mind. We're going to try shooting the way you are."

"You're going to have me shoot standing in the wrong position?"

"Not necessarily. I'm just going to show how what it feels like shooting this way so you'll see the benefits of shooting another way." He smiles cryptically again, and Ariadne rolls her eyes. "Now, hold the gun up at shoulder level. Do you remember me showing you where the sight is?"

The architect nods. "I need to line up the little knob on the top front of the gun between the two slits on the top back of the gun, right?"

"Good work, Ari."

"Ok. Which eye should I shut?" She proceeds trying to squint through one eye at a time, producing a laugh from Eames.

"Neither," he chuckles at her facial expressions. "A good marksman doesn't need to shut an eye."

"But that makes it kind of hard to see," she protests.

"You'll learn. Press the trigger when you're ready."

"Don't I need eye and ear protection?"

"Not strictly speaking, no," he declines, but a pair of red headphone-looking things appears on the table before her, and Eames goes to put them on her head. "But should you be complaining about eye protection when you're having trouble lining up what you're shooting at? At this rate, we're going to be here all day, and that's without anything clouding your vision."

She mumbles something colorful in response, and once she finally sights up her target, she presses the trigger. The firearm rips to life with a loud bang, and the recoil pulses through her strongly enough that she needs to take two steps back to maintain her balance.

"That's why you wanted me to reposition my hips," she mumbles, adjusting her body.

"Right. You can use your body –"

"To balance out the recoil of the gun by counteracting the force with my left foot, yeah," she finishes, raising the gun to shoot again. She sights her weapon up much faster this time, smiling when she's able to counteract the force of the shot.

"Straighten your arms a little, love," Eames advises. "It'll make the recoil even less powerful."

Ariadne does what she's told, and after a few minutes, she's emptied the Glock's magazine. Eames presses a button to her left and her target moves slowly toward them as the forger reloads the gun.

"I didn't do a fantastic job," she frowns, noticing that most of her shots had strayed out of the silhouette. The few bullets that had connected with the target were low in the abdomen area. Several hadn't even hit the paper.

"You're learning," Eames shrugs, handing her a newly-loaded gun before reaching up to exchange the target with a fresh one. "Have at it again."

* * *

Several hours later, she has fired at countless targets at multiple distances, learning to adjust for proximity or lack of it. By the end of her practice, her arms are too fatigued to hold the gun at shoulder level. Yet Ariadne takes pride in knowing that her last few rounds had all found the target, and her shots were increasingly, if slowly, improving.

"I'm not bad," she smiles, handing the sleek gun back to Eames.

"You're not bad at shooting at a stationary target with a nine-millimeter pistol. There are still different types of guns and different shooting styles. Not to mention moving targets," he answers cheekily.

She wants to say something back, but the building around her starts to shake and crumble. Ariadne takes one last look at the range in front of her before succumbing to the force pulling her back to reality.

* * *

The warehouse comes back into focus, a rush of greys and hard edges and concrete. Eames is already up, whistling as he plucks the needle gently from her wrist. Ariadne stretches, noting the ghosts of pain fatiguing her muscles.

"Jellyfish?" she ribs the forger again, remembering their previous conversation.

"Yes. They are revolting animals that ruin a perfectly good day at the beach. Not to mention they move in a disgustingly eerie manner."

"You know they don't have brains, right?"

"Doesn't matter. Still disgusting."

She laughs at his grimace before he goes to return the PASIV to its proper place. "Is there a story behind your ridiculous fear?" she calls out across the warehouse.

"Not one that I'm planning on telling," he responds, voice booming across the expanse. She laughs, relaxing back against the lawn chair, marveling again how she came to Paris as a simple architecture student and somehow stumbled her way into a life that was more than she could have ever imagined.

"Eames?" she calls as his footsteps plod back into earshot range. "How did you get into extraction?"

"That, my dear, is a story for a different time."

"What about the others?"

"Cobb," he purses his lips thoughtfully, "was taught by your Professor Miles. Yusuf was formulating different compounds for a sleep medication, I believe, when someone from the business employed him for some odd job. And Arthur was with Cobb when I met him. He told me some half-ass story once, but I could tell from the start that he was lying."

"What'd he say?"

"Ariadne, dear," he says, turning his blue eyes on her, "why bother with a lie when you can find out the truth?"

She chooses not to focus on his deflection but instead takes up the chance to tease him. "Coming from a professional con-man?"

Eames laughs as well. "Ari, you cut me to the core," he jokes, pretending to wince.

"Where are they, Eames?" she asks after a long moment, letting the void left by humor be filled with unanswered questions.

Eames's expression turns stoic. "I don't know," he answers. "They didn't tell me."

"They're coming back, right?" she asks before correcting herself. "I mean, I _know_ they're coming back. But do you have an idea as to when?"

Eames looks up, then down, then at her again before shrugging. "The best answer I can give you is that they'll be found when they want to be found, Ari. When they feel it's safe to come out of hiding, they'll be here."

"Why did you come back, Eames?" Her eyes are open and honest, her tone frank and sincere.

For a moment, it seems like the forger will open up and spill his motives. But as quickly as somberness graced his sea-colored gaze, humor returns and his eyes sparkle again like the sun across the Caribbean.

"You ask me so many questions, darling. Why don't we go to dinner so you can get me drunk, eh? Maybe after a drink or two I'll be in a more gossipy mood."

She's disappointed but satisfied, so she grabs her coat and accepts Eames's playfully-offered arm as they step out into the Parisian night. The air around them is dark with secrets and desires and unspoken truths yet comfortable in its mystery just the same.

* * *

**Again, I apologize that it took so long to post this chapter. I hope you enjoyed it!**

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